My boyfriend Matt and I have known each other for a couple of years, but officially started dating last October. There were a few things that he said and did when I was battling cancer that made me fall for him. The first was after I shaved my head before starting chemo. He made a point of telling me that he thought I was cute bald. Of course, I didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to say so.
As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs. Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy. My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary. I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death. But Matt had no fear. He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could. He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.
In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike. An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes. So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo. As it turned out, the bike was for me. He made it. If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner. Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions. Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt. I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.
At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt. We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks. We talked a lot. We had a lot of deep conversations. During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again. Matt said the nicest thing. He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo. He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon. His words touched my heart. He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love. It overwhelmed me. A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time. Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.
Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together. The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision. I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy. Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong? Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?
Once again, Matt's words touched my heart. He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips. But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other." And he was right. Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Hair!
Hair is a blessing and a curse. Especially for women. Also maybe for men who have balding heads along with bodies covered in fur like Silverbacks. I never realized how much I loved my hair until I went through six sessions of chemotherapy and it all fell out. And I never realized how much I hated it until I began experiencing the 'growing back' stages that followed my final treatment.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Guilty pleasure
I was raised on television. My parents never restricted my viewing time and I watched whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My TV addiction continued as an adult. Reality shows were my guilty pleasure. I loved watching weekend marathons of MTV's Real World, Road Rules and Making The Band. But something happened a few years back when I got rid of my clunky big screen. I found other things to do with my time, other simple pleasures--reading, writing, cooking, walking my dogs, spending time with friends. When I finally purchased a TV again, I didn't want to get hooked, so I decided not to get cable or satellite. I would only watch the movies that I had missed in the theater and past seasons of my favorite shows on DVD--Lost, Weeds, Entourage, Dexter. Oh, and occasionally an episode or two of Dancing With The Stars with my friend Nicole. But that was it. Really. I had no idea what shows aired when.
Things started to change a year ago after I had major surgery for ovarian cancer. I was laid up for quite a while. During my recovery my girlfriends Nicole and Austine would come over, they'd help me take care of things around the house, we'd have food delivered and then we would hang out, eat and watch television. Boy, was I thankful for my TV! Once I started chemotherapy, our viewing nights continued and evolved into a Monday night tradition that we now call Girls' Night.
Even though chemo is a distant memory and I have fully recovered, Girls' Night is still my favorite time of the week. I cook dinner and my friends and I settle in and chit chat about whatever comes to mind. We talk about men, we talk about work, we talk about each other. As soon as the clock strikes 7, we stop talking and get completely caught up in our current guilty pleasure--The Bachelor. OK, so it's not really reality, and the premise of the show is ridiculous. But my friends and I can't get enough of it.
Monday night was the season finale, and hot 38 year old bachelor Brad Womack was forced to choose from two beautiful women. I guessed he would propose to Emily, the sweet 24 year old blond single mom who lost her fiance in a plane wreck before she knew she was pregnant with his daughter. From around episode three, every time Brad was around this woman, he could barely speak. It was clear to me that he was smitten with her. I was so sure she would win, I bet a coworker a sandwich.
The other finalist was Chantal, a 28 year old divorcee, who was fun and sassy. She slapped him in the face during the season premier (coached by the producers, I'm sure). She was the opposite of Emily in every way. Brad and Chantal's dates were amazing--everything from zip-lining through the jungles of Costa Rica to swimming with sharks in South Africa. It would have been difficult for them NOT to have a good time together, given the activities they shared.
In the end, he did indeed propose to Emily, and my friends and I were pleased. That was until we watched 'After The Final Rose'--the show that featured Bachelor Brad and his bride-to-be reunited in public for the first time since the taping of the final episode. Suddenly the woman who seemed so confident, poised and unshaken by any of her former competition was insecure and whiny. Apparently she had not considered the possibility that her fiance had shown other women his affection when he wasn't stuttering and stammering his way through picnics and walks on the beach with her. Even though she signed up to be on a game show for a chance to win a husband, somehow the fact that the other women were there for the same reason slipped her mind. And I guess as she watched the show every Monday night, and what really went down, her feelings were hurt. So much so that she called off the engagement more than once.
I have to say, I felt a little sorry for Brad as he continued to ogle this chick and rub her finger sans engagement ring while she went on about how he hadn't gotten anything right. She was completely hung up on how if she was really 'the one' from the moment they met he would not have given anyone else the time of day. He was completely hung up on her. He couldn't change what had happened, and she was not going to let it go. She eventually announced that they were still engaged, but my friends and I weren't buying it. Poor Brad. The bottom line was that it was a competition, and he treated it as such, taking advantage of the time he shared with all of the women. He did his best to get to know them and decide who he thought was right for him. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He selected a woman with whom he was most compatible and shared many common interests. A woman he connected with intellectually and spiritually. A woman that shared his priorities, values and goals. Oh wait, that's not how it works on The Bachelor. All that couldn't possibly be squeezed into 10 episodes. The truth is, Brad Womack did what any man who was nearly 40 and finally ready to settle down might do. He chose a Southern Belle who was 14 years his junior and looked like a real-life Barbie.
Good luck, Brad. We'll miss you on Monday nights.
Things started to change a year ago after I had major surgery for ovarian cancer. I was laid up for quite a while. During my recovery my girlfriends Nicole and Austine would come over, they'd help me take care of things around the house, we'd have food delivered and then we would hang out, eat and watch television. Boy, was I thankful for my TV! Once I started chemotherapy, our viewing nights continued and evolved into a Monday night tradition that we now call Girls' Night.
Even though chemo is a distant memory and I have fully recovered, Girls' Night is still my favorite time of the week. I cook dinner and my friends and I settle in and chit chat about whatever comes to mind. We talk about men, we talk about work, we talk about each other. As soon as the clock strikes 7, we stop talking and get completely caught up in our current guilty pleasure--The Bachelor. OK, so it's not really reality, and the premise of the show is ridiculous. But my friends and I can't get enough of it.
Monday night was the season finale, and hot 38 year old bachelor Brad Womack was forced to choose from two beautiful women. I guessed he would propose to Emily, the sweet 24 year old blond single mom who lost her fiance in a plane wreck before she knew she was pregnant with his daughter. From around episode three, every time Brad was around this woman, he could barely speak. It was clear to me that he was smitten with her. I was so sure she would win, I bet a coworker a sandwich.
The other finalist was Chantal, a 28 year old divorcee, who was fun and sassy. She slapped him in the face during the season premier (coached by the producers, I'm sure). She was the opposite of Emily in every way. Brad and Chantal's dates were amazing--everything from zip-lining through the jungles of Costa Rica to swimming with sharks in South Africa. It would have been difficult for them NOT to have a good time together, given the activities they shared.
In the end, he did indeed propose to Emily, and my friends and I were pleased. That was until we watched 'After The Final Rose'--the show that featured Bachelor Brad and his bride-to-be reunited in public for the first time since the taping of the final episode. Suddenly the woman who seemed so confident, poised and unshaken by any of her former competition was insecure and whiny. Apparently she had not considered the possibility that her fiance had shown other women his affection when he wasn't stuttering and stammering his way through picnics and walks on the beach with her. Even though she signed up to be on a game show for a chance to win a husband, somehow the fact that the other women were there for the same reason slipped her mind. And I guess as she watched the show every Monday night, and what really went down, her feelings were hurt. So much so that she called off the engagement more than once.
I have to say, I felt a little sorry for Brad as he continued to ogle this chick and rub her finger sans engagement ring while she went on about how he hadn't gotten anything right. She was completely hung up on how if she was really 'the one' from the moment they met he would not have given anyone else the time of day. He was completely hung up on her. He couldn't change what had happened, and she was not going to let it go. She eventually announced that they were still engaged, but my friends and I weren't buying it. Poor Brad. The bottom line was that it was a competition, and he treated it as such, taking advantage of the time he shared with all of the women. He did his best to get to know them and decide who he thought was right for him. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He selected a woman with whom he was most compatible and shared many common interests. A woman he connected with intellectually and spiritually. A woman that shared his priorities, values and goals. Oh wait, that's not how it works on The Bachelor. All that couldn't possibly be squeezed into 10 episodes. The truth is, Brad Womack did what any man who was nearly 40 and finally ready to settle down might do. He chose a Southern Belle who was 14 years his junior and looked like a real-life Barbie.
Good luck, Brad. We'll miss you on Monday nights.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Candy coated crack
I was never a fan of plain M&Ms. I never craved a plain M&M. I never purchased a package at the store or at the movies. I never rummaged through the Easter or Halloween candy belonging to the children of friends or relatives hoping to score a 'fun size' pack of plain M&Ms. Peanut or pretzel M&Ms? Different story. I've got a thing for the salty sweet combo. But plain M&Ms? I just never thought they had that much to offer.
At the museum where I work, a tradition of having an endless supply of plain M&Ms available for staff was started a few years back by a teacher-in-residence. This particular educator was a bit of a pack rat and brought in random stuff that he collected during his off time to 'share' with the rest of us. For example, one day he showed up with a few dozen hard plastic Pillsbury Doughboy dolls and gave them to everyone on staff. Why he thought we would all like a personal Doughboy that didn't even giggle "Hoo-hoo!" when its belly was rubbed was beyond me. Anyway, the M&M tradition began when this teacher brought in one of his yard sale finds--a dispenser in the shape of a couple of M&M guys. He placed it on his desk, filled it with plain M&Ms and announced that he and future teachers-in-residence were responsible for keeping it filled.
People were drawn to to the dispenser. Every day, at least a dozen times a day, someone would walk by, press the lever and take a handful of M&Ms. At first the noise was annoying. There were many interesting responses to the dispensing of the candy. Some people acted surprised when candy came out. "Oh! There are M&Ms in here!" Others did not want to call attention to their candy consumption and attempted to dispense quietly. When that didn't work they seemed almost irritated and would say things like, "Wow, that's way too many... does anyone want some of these?" The best reaction was always from the people who acted as if they had hit the jackpot on a Vegas slot machine. "Woo hoo! M&Ms!!!"
During the first year of the dispenser, I rarely indulged. But the following year brought a new teacher-in-residence and a second dispenser--one that was filled with peanut M&Ms. I helped myself to this candy once or twice a day. I have to admit, it was addicting. And not just for me. Many of my co-workers loved the peanut M&Ms as well. And occasionally there were peanut butter or dark chocolate M&Ms. The fancy flavors always went quickly. It got to the point where the dispensers were no longer being used and people were just digging their hands into the super size bags of candy that were kept on a shelf nearby. Honestly, I don't recall who started this. It may have been me. All I know is that the germaphobes in the office were freaking out and my clothes were getting tighter by the minute. I had to do a self-intervention. I quit cold turkey.
I was M&M free for over a year. And then something happened a couple of months ago. I was having a bad day and as I walked by the teacher-in-residence desk, I took a handful of plain M&Ms from a bag on the shelf above the dispenser. There were none of the peanut variety, otherwise I surely would have selected those instead. At first I was dissatisfied and wondered why I bothered eating candy I didn't even like. But then the sugar rush hit me. My mood improved. I was bubbly and happy and started making noise in our otherwise mostly quiet office--thinking out loud, singing whatever song popped into my head, sharing celebrity gossip, cracking jokes. The M&Ms brought me joy. So much so that almost every time I walked by the bag, I grabbed a handful.
A month or so ago I had one of my regularly scheduled visits to the oncologist. He shared the results of my quarterly CT scan and blood work--still cancer-free! My incisions had healed well and all my vitals were outstanding. There was just one issue. Weight gain. I knew it was coming and at first I blamed cancer. It was the heavy duty steroids administered before each chemotherapy treatment that helped fuel a 15 pound weigh gain over the summer. But that was more than seven months ago and there was no longer a trace of steroids anywhere in my system. I thought about how my eating habits had changed. It was true, I was indulging in some M&Ms, but I questioned how a couple of handfuls of candy a day could lead to such a fast and significant increase in weight. So I conducted an experiment. I put three of my 'handfuls' of M&Ms into a measuring cup and calculated the calories. I practically fainted when I realized I had been eating around 400 calories a day in M&Ms! An additional 2,000 calories a week! It was at that point that I had to be honest with myself and admit that I was packing on the pounds because of my candy coated crack addiction.
It's amazing how you can mindlessly pick up such a bad habit and not completely grasp what you are doing to your body. And how when faced with reality, it is still so easy to deny it. Thankfully, I have entered into a treatment program for sugar addicts and I am happy to say that I am once again M&M free.
At the museum where I work, a tradition of having an endless supply of plain M&Ms available for staff was started a few years back by a teacher-in-residence. This particular educator was a bit of a pack rat and brought in random stuff that he collected during his off time to 'share' with the rest of us. For example, one day he showed up with a few dozen hard plastic Pillsbury Doughboy dolls and gave them to everyone on staff. Why he thought we would all like a personal Doughboy that didn't even giggle "Hoo-hoo!" when its belly was rubbed was beyond me. Anyway, the M&M tradition began when this teacher brought in one of his yard sale finds--a dispenser in the shape of a couple of M&M guys. He placed it on his desk, filled it with plain M&Ms and announced that he and future teachers-in-residence were responsible for keeping it filled.
People were drawn to to the dispenser. Every day, at least a dozen times a day, someone would walk by, press the lever and take a handful of M&Ms. At first the noise was annoying. There were many interesting responses to the dispensing of the candy. Some people acted surprised when candy came out. "Oh! There are M&Ms in here!" Others did not want to call attention to their candy consumption and attempted to dispense quietly. When that didn't work they seemed almost irritated and would say things like, "Wow, that's way too many... does anyone want some of these?" The best reaction was always from the people who acted as if they had hit the jackpot on a Vegas slot machine. "Woo hoo! M&Ms!!!"
During the first year of the dispenser, I rarely indulged. But the following year brought a new teacher-in-residence and a second dispenser--one that was filled with peanut M&Ms. I helped myself to this candy once or twice a day. I have to admit, it was addicting. And not just for me. Many of my co-workers loved the peanut M&Ms as well. And occasionally there were peanut butter or dark chocolate M&Ms. The fancy flavors always went quickly. It got to the point where the dispensers were no longer being used and people were just digging their hands into the super size bags of candy that were kept on a shelf nearby. Honestly, I don't recall who started this. It may have been me. All I know is that the germaphobes in the office were freaking out and my clothes were getting tighter by the minute. I had to do a self-intervention. I quit cold turkey.
I was M&M free for over a year. And then something happened a couple of months ago. I was having a bad day and as I walked by the teacher-in-residence desk, I took a handful of plain M&Ms from a bag on the shelf above the dispenser. There were none of the peanut variety, otherwise I surely would have selected those instead. At first I was dissatisfied and wondered why I bothered eating candy I didn't even like. But then the sugar rush hit me. My mood improved. I was bubbly and happy and started making noise in our otherwise mostly quiet office--thinking out loud, singing whatever song popped into my head, sharing celebrity gossip, cracking jokes. The M&Ms brought me joy. So much so that almost every time I walked by the bag, I grabbed a handful.
A month or so ago I had one of my regularly scheduled visits to the oncologist. He shared the results of my quarterly CT scan and blood work--still cancer-free! My incisions had healed well and all my vitals were outstanding. There was just one issue. Weight gain. I knew it was coming and at first I blamed cancer. It was the heavy duty steroids administered before each chemotherapy treatment that helped fuel a 15 pound weigh gain over the summer. But that was more than seven months ago and there was no longer a trace of steroids anywhere in my system. I thought about how my eating habits had changed. It was true, I was indulging in some M&Ms, but I questioned how a couple of handfuls of candy a day could lead to such a fast and significant increase in weight. So I conducted an experiment. I put three of my 'handfuls' of M&Ms into a measuring cup and calculated the calories. I practically fainted when I realized I had been eating around 400 calories a day in M&Ms! An additional 2,000 calories a week! It was at that point that I had to be honest with myself and admit that I was packing on the pounds because of my candy coated crack addiction.
It's amazing how you can mindlessly pick up such a bad habit and not completely grasp what you are doing to your body. And how when faced with reality, it is still so easy to deny it. Thankfully, I have entered into a treatment program for sugar addicts and I am happy to say that I am once again M&M free.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
There's a hole in my heart
I got my dog Jake when he was eight weeks old. He fit in the palm of my hand. A short-haired red mini Dachshund, his disposition was sweet and mellow from the start. I was told by the breeder that he wouldn't weigh more than 12 pounds but he quickly grew to around 15. He wasn't fat, just solid. I didn't care if he was too heavy to be registered in the "mini" class at a dog show. Although he supposedly came from a proud bloodline, he was no show dog. He loved to wrestle with other dogs, he rooted around in the dirt, chased after squirrels and chewed the squeaker out of every toy he encountered in less than five minutes.
He loved to go for car rides and walks. We would walk for miles and miles and his little 3-inch long legs rarely got tired. It was during a 5K charity walk that an apparent dog expert approached us with two small Dachshunds and commented that he hadn't seen many of the full-sized variety. "Oh, he's a miniature," I said. The man scoffed at me and looked at Jake like he was a mutant. "He's much too big to be a mini!" I didn't know dog classifications were such serious business. "Don't listen to him," I told Jake and we headed in the opposite direction of the man with his two perfect 8 pound wieners.
I often thought Jake was one of my childhood dogs reincarnated--a big black Labrador Retriever named Zeke. Jake was like Zeke in many ways. Both had big brown soulful eyes and very expressive eyebrows. When they stared at you it felt like they knew exactly what you were thinking. Both loved the outdoors. In the summertime, Jake would stay in the back yard all day if he could. He always found a sunny spot in the grass where he would sleep for hours. Both lived through their noses and if allowed to set the pace of a walk, Jake would likely only make it a few blocks with his face to the ground the entire time. Both were intensely loyal. Given the opportunity to escape a fenced-in yard on many occasions, Jake chose to stay where he was most familiar.
He was my first dog, my best friend, my trusty companion. He was by my side through everything--the ups, the downs, the zigs and zags. Everything life brought my way. He loved me unconditionally for nearly 14 years. I adored him. Today, after several weeks of contemplation, I put Jake down. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done.
My fondest memories of Jake...
As a tiny puppy, just a few months old, he was left out of his crate while I was at work and chewed the arm off a chair almost completely.
He was obsessed with toilet paper as a puppy, and if he could reach it, would undo an entire roll and sleep in a nest of it on the bathroom floor.
His smile was crooked because he only had three canine teeth--the forth never came in when he lost his milk teeth.
He never barked or wagged his tail until he was a year old. He scared himself and jumped when he first heard the sound of his own voice. As a pup, his version of tail wagging was wiggling his entire body, hoping his tail would follow.
He loved buttons and chewed them off numerous comforter covers, pillows, shirts and cardigans whenever he got the chance.
Like most Dachshunds he loved to burrow under blankets and pillows, and could often be found asleep under his dog bed instead of on top of it.
He hated wearing doggy clothing. Whenever I tried to dress him in a winter coat, he would convulse and wiggle like he was possessed until he made his way out of it.
He was a small dog who loved big dogs. He thought big dogs wanted to play with him and whenever he saw a big dog, any big dog, he would let out a little grunt, wag his tail and get really excited. If the dog wasn't interested, he would just stare it down, wagging his tail happily, hoping to get some play time.
He was almost always mellow but when he wanted attention he became very intense and would nudge your arm or shin repeatedly with his powerful little nose.
He never whined to go outside, he never whined for food, he only whined when his water dish was empty.
His favorite place to sleep was squeezed between my hip and the arm of the sofa or chair. Even if there wasn't enough room to accommodate him. His second favorite place to sleep was on my side whenever I laid on the sofa.
After a bath he would roll and wiggle around on the floor like a bug on its back for what seemed like hours until his fur was almost completely dried.
He loved popcorn. As it was popping he would just stare up at the microwave wagging his tail.
Every day, for most of his life, he would dance in circles the first time he saw me each morning or when I came home after being gone a while. He was always happy to see me.
I will miss him every day.
He loved to go for car rides and walks. We would walk for miles and miles and his little 3-inch long legs rarely got tired. It was during a 5K charity walk that an apparent dog expert approached us with two small Dachshunds and commented that he hadn't seen many of the full-sized variety. "Oh, he's a miniature," I said. The man scoffed at me and looked at Jake like he was a mutant. "He's much too big to be a mini!" I didn't know dog classifications were such serious business. "Don't listen to him," I told Jake and we headed in the opposite direction of the man with his two perfect 8 pound wieners.
I often thought Jake was one of my childhood dogs reincarnated--a big black Labrador Retriever named Zeke. Jake was like Zeke in many ways. Both had big brown soulful eyes and very expressive eyebrows. When they stared at you it felt like they knew exactly what you were thinking. Both loved the outdoors. In the summertime, Jake would stay in the back yard all day if he could. He always found a sunny spot in the grass where he would sleep for hours. Both lived through their noses and if allowed to set the pace of a walk, Jake would likely only make it a few blocks with his face to the ground the entire time. Both were intensely loyal. Given the opportunity to escape a fenced-in yard on many occasions, Jake chose to stay where he was most familiar.
He was my first dog, my best friend, my trusty companion. He was by my side through everything--the ups, the downs, the zigs and zags. Everything life brought my way. He loved me unconditionally for nearly 14 years. I adored him. Today, after several weeks of contemplation, I put Jake down. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done.
My fondest memories of Jake...
As a tiny puppy, just a few months old, he was left out of his crate while I was at work and chewed the arm off a chair almost completely.
He was obsessed with toilet paper as a puppy, and if he could reach it, would undo an entire roll and sleep in a nest of it on the bathroom floor.
His smile was crooked because he only had three canine teeth--the forth never came in when he lost his milk teeth.
He never barked or wagged his tail until he was a year old. He scared himself and jumped when he first heard the sound of his own voice. As a pup, his version of tail wagging was wiggling his entire body, hoping his tail would follow.
He loved buttons and chewed them off numerous comforter covers, pillows, shirts and cardigans whenever he got the chance.
Like most Dachshunds he loved to burrow under blankets and pillows, and could often be found asleep under his dog bed instead of on top of it.
He hated wearing doggy clothing. Whenever I tried to dress him in a winter coat, he would convulse and wiggle like he was possessed until he made his way out of it.
He was a small dog who loved big dogs. He thought big dogs wanted to play with him and whenever he saw a big dog, any big dog, he would let out a little grunt, wag his tail and get really excited. If the dog wasn't interested, he would just stare it down, wagging his tail happily, hoping to get some play time.
He was almost always mellow but when he wanted attention he became very intense and would nudge your arm or shin repeatedly with his powerful little nose.
He never whined to go outside, he never whined for food, he only whined when his water dish was empty.
His favorite place to sleep was squeezed between my hip and the arm of the sofa or chair. Even if there wasn't enough room to accommodate him. His second favorite place to sleep was on my side whenever I laid on the sofa.
After a bath he would roll and wiggle around on the floor like a bug on its back for what seemed like hours until his fur was almost completely dried.
He loved popcorn. As it was popping he would just stare up at the microwave wagging his tail.
Every day, for most of his life, he would dance in circles the first time he saw me each morning or when I came home after being gone a while. He was always happy to see me.
I will miss him every day.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Where do I begin?
My first blog. Sort of. I kept a journal on CaringBridge for about 10 months--the story of my battle with ovarian cancer. I am now cancer-free and while it was very therapeutic to share my journey with friends and family, it was time to move on from CaringBridge. Something really great came of it though. I rediscovered how much I loved to write. And my followers encouraged me to keep writing. Some have even said I should write a book. Baby steps.
So where do I begin? With a story about the person who gave me the nickname Cricket. My dad.
It's been a little over a year since my dad passed away. He had lung cancer from around 50 years of smoking cigarettes. He had stopped several years earlier, but there was already a large mass in his lungs. It wasn't discovered until it was too late. Partly because my dad was tough as nails. He drank his coffee black and a lot of it. He rarely wore a winter coat during freezing Minnesota winters. And he never missed work. In fact, I only have a couple of memories of him being ill, but even then he didn't take a day off.
I'm not sure why it was a surprise that we didn't know he was sick. He wasn't a complainer. But it was quite a shock when he was admitted to the hospital for tests and we were told he was in renal failure. His body was already shutting down. The doctor pulled my older brother and I out of the room and told us to "start making plans." Plans for what, I remember thinking. He died three days later.
My dad was smart, funny, quick-witted, sharp-tongued, someone who didn’t mince words. A man who was respected by his friends, co-workers, neighbors. He was a man who often lent a hand, or offered advice. He may have acted like a tough guy, but he was a softy deep down. When I was a little girl, he could get me to smile by singing to me. While he was in the hospital, during a quiet time with just the two of us, we were interrupted by a nurse who came in to take his vitals. After getting a low blood pressure reading, she asked him to sit up straight and sing a song while she took a second reading. The song he sang was, 'Say Say Oh Playmate'--a song I had long since forgotten, but that guaranteed no more tears when I was small.
I was legally named Christine by my mom, but nicknamed Cricket by my dad when I was around a year old. I never asked how I got the nickname, I just assumed there was a sweet moment when he looked at his cooing baby girl and decided she sounded like a chirping insect. Or perhaps he saw how enamored I was with Jiminy Cricket, the cartoon host of Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday evenings. In my early thirties I finally asked him to share his inspiration for the name and all he said was, "I guess 'cause it sounds like Chris." A typical response from my dad--no sugar-coating. "Are you sure it wasn't because I made cute little noises like a cricket when I was a baby?" I asked. He paused and said, "No, you were a quiet baby. You never made much noise."
As I lamented about what to call my blog, I settled on 'Cricket Chirps' because, well, while I may not have made much noise as a baby, I have a lot to say now. In loving memory of my dad.
So where do I begin? With a story about the person who gave me the nickname Cricket. My dad.
It's been a little over a year since my dad passed away. He had lung cancer from around 50 years of smoking cigarettes. He had stopped several years earlier, but there was already a large mass in his lungs. It wasn't discovered until it was too late. Partly because my dad was tough as nails. He drank his coffee black and a lot of it. He rarely wore a winter coat during freezing Minnesota winters. And he never missed work. In fact, I only have a couple of memories of him being ill, but even then he didn't take a day off.
I'm not sure why it was a surprise that we didn't know he was sick. He wasn't a complainer. But it was quite a shock when he was admitted to the hospital for tests and we were told he was in renal failure. His body was already shutting down. The doctor pulled my older brother and I out of the room and told us to "start making plans." Plans for what, I remember thinking. He died three days later.
My dad was smart, funny, quick-witted, sharp-tongued, someone who didn’t mince words. A man who was respected by his friends, co-workers, neighbors. He was a man who often lent a hand, or offered advice. He may have acted like a tough guy, but he was a softy deep down. When I was a little girl, he could get me to smile by singing to me. While he was in the hospital, during a quiet time with just the two of us, we were interrupted by a nurse who came in to take his vitals. After getting a low blood pressure reading, she asked him to sit up straight and sing a song while she took a second reading. The song he sang was, 'Say Say Oh Playmate'--a song I had long since forgotten, but that guaranteed no more tears when I was small.
I was legally named Christine by my mom, but nicknamed Cricket by my dad when I was around a year old. I never asked how I got the nickname, I just assumed there was a sweet moment when he looked at his cooing baby girl and decided she sounded like a chirping insect. Or perhaps he saw how enamored I was with Jiminy Cricket, the cartoon host of Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday evenings. In my early thirties I finally asked him to share his inspiration for the name and all he said was, "I guess 'cause it sounds like Chris." A typical response from my dad--no sugar-coating. "Are you sure it wasn't because I made cute little noises like a cricket when I was a baby?" I asked. He paused and said, "No, you were a quiet baby. You never made much noise."
As I lamented about what to call my blog, I settled on 'Cricket Chirps' because, well, while I may not have made much noise as a baby, I have a lot to say now. In loving memory of my dad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)